make a name for yourself. You could have the identity parade of the century.
The thought made him happier than anything else he had heard that day.
And there was still the educated, efficient Sergeant Pascoe’s report to come in.
Pascoe was also feeling happy as he pushed open the door of Super-Vacs.
(You Take The Trip We Take The Trouble) Ltd. (Prop. Gregory Aird).
After his abortive trip to the airport he had felt uneasy at the prospect of confronting Dalziel with nothing but negatives. Particularly when they did not remove even one of the many possibilities concerning the movements of Miss. Girling and/or her corpse.
“Elimination is the better part of detection,’ Dalziel on occasion uttered with the smugness of a man specially selected to proclaim an eternal truth.
All Pascoe had eliminated by his journey to the airport had been some public time and public money. But his continental telephone call had opened up new possibilities. He had instigated enquiries in Doncaster as to the present whereabouts of Miss. Jean Mayflower, while he himself drove into Harrogate. The bright sunshine and a comfortable intuition that somewhere in the old records of Super-Vacs Ltd would be useful and revealing information revived in him a pleasure in his work based on a conviction of its positive social usefulness. He had once told Dalziel in an unguarded moment that it was his social conscience which had brought him into the police when many more comfortable careers were open to him.
“Well, bugger me,’ was the fat man’s only comment at the time. But a week or two later Pascoe had found himself ‘ loan’ to a neighbouring force who were drafting in extra men to help control an Anti-Racial Discrimination demonstration. It had been very unpleasant for a few hours.
“How’s your social conscience?’ Dalziel had asked him on his return, but did not stay for an answer. Then, as in the last couple of days, the academic life had seemed very attractive.
Now as he pushed through the plate-glass doors, the lives of those in places like the college seemed pale, thinly-spread, lukewarm by comparison with his own purposeful existence.
The young man behind the counter looked with pleasure on the sergeant and smiled welcomingly, obviously seeing in his demeanour a customer ready, willing and eager to be satisfied.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may we help you?”
Pascoe felt in his wallet for his warrant card.
“I’m interested in ski-ing holidays,’ he said. ‘ Christmas.”
“Certainly, sir,’ said the young man. ‘ am sure we’ll be able to… “
He stopped in puzzlement as Pascoe held out his card for inspection.
“I’m a police officer,’ he said. ”m interested in skiing holidays five years ago.” “Oh,’ said the young man, taking a step backwards. ‘ don’t know… please wait a minute.”
He turned and went through a door behind him which obviously led into an inner office. Pascoe heard a half whispered exchange but could not catch what was said. The young man reappeared followed by a slightly older man, smartly dressed, his hair beautifully set in shining undulations, who stretched out his hand to Pascoe with a slice-of-melon smile.
“How do you do? I’m Gregory Aird. I didn’t catch…?”
“Pascoe, sir. Sergeant Pascoe. I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?”
“By all means. Step in, Sergeant, do.”
The inner office was sparsely furnished. A desk, a couple of chairs, a filing cabinet and a small safe.
Pascoe took this in at a glance and felt uneasy. There seemed little space here for long-term storage of old records.
“How can I help you?’ said Aird, putting on the serious, cooperative look Pascoe usually associated with the desire to make a good impression in court.
“You can tell me first of all how far back your records go, Mr. Aird.”
“To the beginning. To when it all started, my dear fellow. To the day I took possession.”
Pascoe felt relieved.
“I’m interested in a woman who booked a skiing holiday through you. It wouldn’t be the first time, you understand; it was something she did every Christmas, but I believe your firm handled the arrangements.”
“Aha,’ said Aird. ‘, let’s see. Let’s see.”
He jumped up and strode across to the filing cabinet which he unlocked.
“Now,’ he said opening a drawer.
“I’m interested in her flight number,’ said Pascoe, delighted by this display of efficiency. ‘ I wondered if for instance it was a charter flight, you might not have had a courier who would have made his own check list at the airport. It’s a Miss. Alison Girling. And the date was Christmas 1966.”
Aird’s reaction was surprising. He crashed the drawer shut with a flick of his fingers and returned to his seat, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘ can’t help you there.”
“Why not, sir?’ asked Pascoe, half-suspecting the answer.
“I’ve only been here three years,’ said Aird. ‘ March ‘68. You’re before my time, Inspector.” “Sergeant. But you said… “
“Ah. I see your difficulty. No. The Super-Vacs you want went out of business in ‘67. No scandal, nothing like that, you understand. The parent firm in Leeds folded up, so their half-dozen branches went too.”
“But the name?” “As I said, there was no scandal. No dissatisfied customers, not here anyway. So when I became interested in the premises for my own agency, well, among other things I found stored here enough stationery for four or five years. All with the Super-Vacs heading, of course. So I just kept the name.” He smiled again, brilliantly, apologetically.
“What about the rest of the stuff that was here? Files, records, that kind of thing?”
“We had a clearing-out. And a bonfire. I’m sorry, Sergeant.”
He stood up and escorted Pascoe to the door. Disappointed though he was, Pascoe still sensed the man’s relief at getting rid of him.
Vindictively, he promised to mention Aird’s name to the locals. There might be something there.
But that didn’t help his own present investigations. Nor would Dalziel be very impressed.
Perhaps the academic life wasn’t so bad after all.
When, on his return to Headquarters, he found waiting for him a message from Doncaster saying that Miss. Jean Mayflower had died four years earlier as a result of a brain tumour, the academic life appeared as a very desirable haven of peace in a storm-battered, thunder thrashed, Dalziel-haunted sea of troubles.
Chapter 10
… the arts which flourish in times while virtue is in growth are military; and while virtue is in state, are liberal; and while virtue is in declination, are voluptuary.
That gentle voyeur, Harold Lapping, would have found much to please him in the college precincts that night. Al 7.30 p.m. the sun was still bright and warm and young bodies turned towards it on every patch of greenery. Even the staff garden, once patrolled with protective fury two or three times an evening by Miss. Disney, was now regarded as common ground in its state of limbo between holy land and a building site. The area immediately around the hole left by the statue was for reasons of decency or superstition unoccupied. But half a dozen small groups were scattered around the rest of the lawn, many stripped for sunbathing, those in swimming costumes practically indistinguishable from those who had merely taken off their outer garments, happy with the doubtful protection of their underclothes.
If Harold, dissatisfied with anything less than total nudity, had been able to glide unnoticed through the college buildings, he would not have been disappointed there. It had been a long, very hot day and there was a
